


Make It Count

by Last_Haven



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Depressing, Implied Future Character Death, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Last_Haven/pseuds/Last_Haven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America will join England's household. No one is celebrating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make It Count

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the usxuk anthology, written for the "Future" prompt.

Clutching his cane against his knees, England bit his lip and hunkered down into the slick cushion of the backseat. Old age was cruel on his bones, but did this ride really need to help cause more pain? From the way the car was being jostled around by the uneven road, he could have deluded himself into thinking he was in a horse drawn carriage again. _You would think that, after all these centuries, they could at least come up with some decent shocks._ At least America would share his disappointment once he reached the house—he was still miffed that they were taking so long to come out with affordable hovercraft of some sort. The thought sparked a smile, and the rest of his trip was just a little more tolerable.

North was waiting for him as he was helped out of the back of the car, her usually excited face shy and solemn. She gazed up at him for a moment before shuffling out to wrap her arms gingerly around his waist. His heart hurt to realize she was now tall enough to tuck herself up against his collarbone. “Hi, Grandpa England.”

“Hello, North.” He patted her back as she murmured into the front of his coat. “How’s everyone holding up, love?”

“Papi Mexico is still sleeping; he’s not feeling good again. Uncle Canada is out back—I think he’s trying to chop wood.” She stepped back, swiping at her bloodshot eyes with the back of her hand. England pulled out a handkerchief and tidied her up while she scrunched up her face to keep from crying. “Daddy’s awake, though; he’s been waiting to see you.”

(He tries to fight back bitter thoughts— _she should not have Mexico’s hair colour. She should not have Canada’s wavy hair._ But, most of all, _she should not have America’s eyes._ This child is not England’s heir, so the point is moot, but like a festering wound, the thought remains. _You should have been ours.)_

“Let’s not keep America waiting anymore, then.” She nodded; together, they slowly climb up the ramp Canada had built for America so many years ago. It was easier on England’s legs than the stairs, so it didn’t take long for them to make it inside. Once in, he handed her his cane so he take off his coat. She waited patiently at his side while he put his coat and hat on the hanger kept specifically for him—it was slightly shorter so he didn’t have to fight with his aching shoulder as much—before dutifully handing the cane back. 

Once upon a time, back when she barely went up to his knee, she would take off and run with it, waving it in the air while shouting for America that England had finally arrived. Back then, America would hurry out either on crutches or in his wheelchair to greet him; afterward, if it was a good day, Mexico might have joined them with snacks. On a very good day, Canada might have join them and even managed to warm to their heir.

That was some time ago, however. Mexico rarely woke up anymore, America’s crutches and, now, his chair gathered dust, and Canada still fought hard against unification, even if his government had long since joined the other two. A chill hovered in the corners and cracks of the home; it was a terrible place for any sick man or young child.

North slipped her hand into his free one, shaking him from his thoughts. With a smile as gentle he could manage, they began the slow trek to America’s room. Back in the beginning, he could sweep North up into his arms and carry her down the halls without losing a breath; the walk seemed to grow longer with each visit.

America was sitting up in bed when they looked in, fiddling with some new contraption Japan had made, humming mindlessly along with the singer crooning an old song—even by America’s standards—on the radio. As always, England had to fight back against the sudden punch to his gut reality gave him each time he saw Alfred again. Time had not been as kind to America as it had England—England’s hair had only gotten scruffier and subtly streaked grey. America’s had gone completely white and receded back a good inch. Texas’s lenses had grown thicker since they last time they met, looking like they wanted to burst clear out of the frames. When America looked up, however, his smile was ever the same.

“Oh finally, you’re here!” He laughed, the slightest hint of a rasp at the end of the sound, but England couldn’t have fought off his smile if he tried. America sat his little do-dad aside while they shuffled in. “I was beginning to think you died and no one had the heart to tell me yet.”

“Daddy, you’re being morbid again,” North huffed, setting her fist against her hip in an amusing sign of preteen frustration.

“Hey, I’m _old._ That means I’m entitled to it!”

“Let’s stop all this ‘old’ talk, if you don’t mind,” England interrupted, shaking his head as he left North’s side to take America’s offered hand. “Give me a proper greeting.”

America grinned up at him, lopsided as ever as he craned his neck up to meet England for a kiss. “Glad to finally see you again.”

“And I you.” Warmth like a flame returning to a long abandoned lantern filled his chest, pulling it tight inward until he thought his heart would shudder in glee.

North cleared her throat as she backed out of the room, her impish smile finally turning her lips up. “I’ll just leave you two alone for awhile.”

“Make sure to tell Canada England’s here before dinner,” America called to her as she turned away. She paused but nodded silently before shuffling away. England glanced over to see America shaking his head. “I’m a little afraid to see how those two will deal with each other when I leave,” he sighed, leaning back into his pillows before reaching out to England, his smile appearing once more. “You missed a good party last night. Mexico woke up long enough to have some cake with us.”

“Cursed schedules never get easier to make, no matter how old you get.”

America nodded knowingly. “Ain’t that the truth.”

England managed a smile, but when he looked away, he could see a blurry shape moving out in the backyard. Perhaps Canada was trying to chop wood out there; England hoped not. Out of the three North American former nations, he had escaped the last war the least injured, but he didn’t need to toss his back out again doing work that wasn’t even necessary anymore. England bit back a sigh, leaning unconsciously into the gap America’s right leg used to fill. “Do you think they’ll be alright without you?”

America sighed through his nose, but answered quickly enough that England knew he had already thought it over. “I don’t think Canada will hang around long once Mexico goes.” England sucked in a breath—in all the days since the North American federation, not once had any of them acknowledged the fact that none of the three had much time left.

“You say it so easily.”

America shrugged, his eyes drifting shut listlessly. “Not much point beating around the bush anymore, is there?”

England looked away rather than answer. For a moment, neither spoke; at last, England couldn’t take the unspoken words any longer. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“What, because of those two? Nah; they’re going to have to learn to get along without me and Mexico sooner or later anyway. Besides, I’ve already decided.” England felt America tug on his sleeve; when he looked up, America smiled at him kindly. “Lay down with me?”

It was a bit of a struggle, but they managed to both get comfortable under the covers. Curled up against him and with his arm over America’s waist, England could feel how thin he had become. He would have to try and get some meat on his bones.

America butted his forehead against the side of England’s neck. “Did you miss me?”

“As much as I ever do.”

“Well, don’t you sound heartbroken.”

England smiled, tucking his head into the crook of America’s neck. “I think I’ll mend in time.”

“Well, at least we’ll have plenty of that once we leave.” America sighed, half into the pillow. “So, did you get a room set up so we can pretend I’m just your guest or are you gonna let me actually stay in your bed?”

Carefully—because he didn’t actually want to hurt America—he pinched his lover’s side, earning a squeak. “Keep it up and I’ll put you out in the garden shed.”

America snorted. “Hey, you’re supposed to be nice to me. You’re the one who invited me to come live with you.”

“I’m nice to guests. You, I’m stuck with.”

“Oh, now you’re just making me feel unwanted.”

England closed his eyes and smiled. “Trust me, my dear—that is the one thing you’ll never be.”

There was a pause as America squirmed next to him. England kept his face tucked against his shoulder as America finally settled down with a happy hum. “Remember when us being in bed for no good reason usually meant screwing like rabbits?”

England snorted at the abrupt conversational turn; after centuries of dealing with America and his odd quirks, though, he barely noticed. “That was only a couple decades ago, you forgetful clod.”

“Seems longer.”

England could only murmur in agreement to that. Time hadn’t been on their side for many a year; gripping America’s hand, he noted that that was truer now more than ever. He might have joked about mending in time, but even that wasn’t certain anymore.

America murmured tonelessly into his neck; England closed his eyes and prayed.

* * *

England meant to talk more than that—they had weeks of catching up to do since their last phone call—but America and his bed ended up being so warm and comfortable that they nearly slept through dinner. North came to wake them, but America just fell back asleep. Dinner was an awkward affair between him, North, and Canada. Conversation seemed to dry up at every petered out word. He hadn’t endured silences like since Scotland’s last revolt.

Mercifully, Canada and North both fled to their own hidey-holes, leaving him free to return to America’s side. Rather than wake his near comatose lover, England changed into real night clothes and slipped back into the bed.

Settling in, England looked across to the former nation. The moonlight did America no favors; his cheekbones were highlighted and deepened with the shadows. It was an eerie cast on a being that once had taken such pride in his looks. But it wasn’t just the face—America looked frailer all over now. His bony knuckles clenched at the bed sheets, but the wrists were now thin enough that England could wrap his fingers around them. The only patches of skin not completely bleached white from moonlight and the lack of a tan were the grim scars circling America’s arms over and over. The last war had laced all three of the North American brothers’ bodies in scars, but Yellowstone’s cataclysmic eruption had struck America the hardest, claiming his leg. Before him lay the body of a nation he had raised as an unblemished child but now falling to pieces (almost literally) from war and natural disaster.

And it was only going to get worse, he knew. Distantly, he remember Rome’s fall from power, slipping fast into ruin just like America now. This was fate of all former nations and now England was going to be sitting up front and center to watch America’s final moments.

Sure, he _might_ put some weight back on America. He _might_ coax a little more life into those eyes, even if he has to steal sand from Death’s own hourglass. But the papers were signed, the new government formed, and North—the United Lands of North America—was ready to inherit her fathers’ territories, even if Canada fought death viciously. Far more likely, he’d be there to wipe dribbled food from America’s chin at meals, wheedle him into taking whatever medication he would need. He might bear through America’s memories slowly slipping away.

He was going to watch America die no matter what happened and the thought alone killed him already.

 _Time,_ he mused, _truly is against us._

In his sleep, America mumbled something and stretched his hand out in the space between them. Smiling softly, England took it before carefully scooting closer.

They didn’t have much time; they were going to have to make it count.


End file.
